The Hand that Trembles (40 page)

‘The Magpie.’

‘It’s been a while.’

‘She’s always driving back and forth, but it’s been calm for a while,’ Thomas said while he backed up a step. The heat caused his cheeks to turn red. ‘Maybe there’s something wrong with her car again.’

Lasse pushed some scrap closer to the flames with the rake.

‘Does she have a guy?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I mean, have you seen anyone?’

‘Naw.’ Thomas grinned. ‘I don’t think she puts out.’

‘She doesn’t? Do you mean …’

‘Not that she’s a lesbian, I don’t think that. But she seems a bit strange all around. But she’s good-looking.’

‘You think? Maybe a little skinny?’

‘I like it,’ Thomas said. ‘She’s pretty appetising, don’t you agree?’

Lasse Malm gave him a sideways glance.

‘I wouldn’t have anything against rolling around in that fishing cottage, that’s for sure,’ Thomas went on. ‘It’d be nice with a bit of pussy close by.’

‘Then go down there,’ Lasse said. ‘Can you watch the fire for a bit, I just realised I have a bit of stuff in the shed as well.’

He passed over the rake and disappeared like a phantom around the side of the house. Thomas leant against the handle. The flames were no longer as high. The smell was somewhat acrid and Thomas guessed Lasse had been burning a wide variety of items.

Lasse came back dragging a pair of rubbish sacks, and without a second thought, heaved them up on an old pallet that had almost burnt down. The plastic started to curl up almost immediately, the bags burst and revealed old rags and packaging materials. A rag burst into flames, perhaps soaked in a kind of paint thinner. A bottle that had contained oil rolled down, but Thomas sent it back into the fire with a welldirected kick.

Lasse left again and returned with another couple of bags that he threw onto the blaze, which had now received a new lease on life.

‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘A little less shit.’

‘I’ve been thinking about this deal with the Magpie,’ Thomas said.

‘I can take that,’ Lasse said, and held out his hand for the rake.

‘She may have a man in the background after all.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She can’t sell a lot of paintings, can she? What does she live off of?’

Lasse masterfully raked together some bits of wood, plastic, and other things.

‘You think some guy is sponsoring her?’ he asked.

‘Sponsoring would be a fancy word for it,’ Thomas said, and chuckled.

‘I don’t care,’ Lasse said. ‘She doesn’t bother me any.’

He bent down and picked up a piece of cloth, looked at it for a moment, then tossed it into the fire.

‘Oh, come on now, admit that you—’

‘Cut it out! If you want to fuck her then drive down there and ask her. Okay?’

A bag started sliding to one side. Lasse caught it with the rake and shifted it back.

‘Well now. How is Christmas looking?’ Thomas changed the topic.

Lasse shook his head, but didn’t answer.

‘I’m going up to Fagervik myself.’

Lasse did not ask him what he was going to do there.

‘I called Doris to reassure her,’ Thomas said out of the blue.

‘That’s great,’ Lasse said, without enthusiasm.

‘Have you seen any more of that cop?’

‘No, have they been talking to you? I thought they had wrapped it up?’

‘That female one from Uppsala … I’m wondering if she and Marksson have something together. Why else would she be turning up all the time? Since we know that Frisk killed that girl. Did you ever meet her?’

‘No,’ Lasse said.

‘I wonder how Frisk got hold of her.’

They stopped speaking and stared into the blaze.

‘It was unsettling, that affair with the chainsaw. They took yours too, I noticed.’

‘They were here poking around,’ Lasse said. ‘Can you move over a little?’

Lasse resumed his raking. Suddenly the handle snapped in two.

‘Damn it!’

‘You’re too strong.’ Thomas smirked.

Lasse Malm tossed the rake aside and stood with his back turned to Thomas before he strode away out of sight.

Something in the bonfire started to spit and an orange flame spurted out. Thomas listened into the darkness by the corner of the house where Lasse had disappeared.

A couple of minutes went by. At first Thomas thought Lasse had gone to fetch another rake but he did not show himself.

The bonfire collapsed further and did not throw off as much heat as before. Thomas peered at the house. Had Lasse gone inside without saying anything?

Finally, after another minute or so, Thomas walked back to the car, turned on the engine, waited a while, then backed out onto the street and drove south.

It was twenty to ten when Ann Lindell thought of it. She had spent the evening putting away toys and clothes, filled two grocery bags with newspapers that had been lying around all over the flat, then put them by the front door. She had vacuumed, and dusted window sills, and done several loads of laundry. She had been thinking about Ante Persson all night, his desperate helplessness and anguish as he was escorted to the police station, brought two flights up in the lift, and placed in an interrogation room. She had leant over the frail body in the wheelchair and put an arm around his shoulders. Fredriksson and Sammy Nilsson had waited in the background, ready to start the interrogation but aware of the fact that the old man had to be reassured first.

There was no joy in this. Solving the murder of Nils Dufva had spread a kind of gloom that was only strengthened when he was brought in.

Ante Persson had mumbled something about ‘everything goes around.’ What had surprised her was the fear in his eyes. They had all assumed he would be bewildered and perhaps tired, but they had been unprepared for the apparent terror he experienced.

Lindell had left the station before the interrogation began and knew nothing of how it had gone. Had Ante been allowed to stay or had he been sent back to Ramund? The latter was more likely. At least that was Ottosson’s opinion, who maintained that the old man had no possibility of fleeing, especially since they could easily post a guard outside his door.

It was when she was finishing the laundry that the penny dropped for her, when the feeling of unease that had grown so strong outside Café Savoy received its explanation. She had just emptied the dryer and sorted the clothes into two neat piles – one for Erik and one for herself – when the thought of how appealing it would be with a third pile flew through her head. At that moment the memory came back to her with a start and it felt as though she had received a strong electric shock.

She dropped her task at hand and went to the kitchen to check the time.

‘It’s not too late,’ she muttered.

The familiar agitation caused her to – anxiously and without any motivation – walk up to the window and study the thermometer, as if the temperature could explain or determine how she should act.

Then came doubt, and while the clock kept ticking indefatigably she grew more and more irresolute. At last, shortly after ten o’clock, she walked up to the telephone.

He picked up immediately and with an alert voice, which reassured her. He may have gone to bed, but had not fallen asleep.

‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘I’ve realised what it was that was bothering me. I’m sorry I’m calling so late but I have to talk to someone.’

‘That’s fine, we’re night owls,’ Bosse Marksson said.

‘Do you remember when we visited Lasse Malm? I was going to return the chainsaw and we put it back in the shed behind the house.’

‘Yes?’

‘There were a couple of rubbish sacks there. One had fallen over. Remember?’

Marksson made a noise of assent.

‘A discarded piece of clothing had fallen out and just as we were going to go, I tossed it back into the bag.’

Lindell paused and unconsciously moved her free hand in a gesture similar to the one she had performed in the shed.

‘Now I know what it was,’ she resumed. ‘Or I think I do. When I was at the Savoy there was a one-year-old sitting on the floor, wearing a pink undershirt. She had spilt something on her chest and it looked pretty soiled.’

‘I see, a pink undershirt,’ Marksson said, to prod Lindell’s memory.

‘The same colour I saw in the rubbish sack. The clothing rag I tossed back had the same colour.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you get it?’

‘No, to be honest, I don’t.’

‘It was a pink tank top that fell out of the bag.’

Marksson digested this information.

‘Do you mean …’

‘What was Malm doing with a pink tank top? He’s as large as a house. You said he hadn’t had a girlfriend in ages.’

‘It was several years ago,’ Marksson confirmed. ‘Do you think it was the Thai girl’s tank top? But there is no connection between the two of them.’

‘No, not as far as we know.’

‘It’s a bit far-fetched,’ Marksson said, after having thought about it for a while.

‘I know, but who would have thought that your pal would find a foot on the beach?’

‘That’s not a flawless comparison,’ Marksson said, and she heard from his voice that he was smiling.

‘Can you go out there tomorrow and check it out?’

Marksson had known Lasse Malm since childhood and she knew he was hesitating.

‘I’ll go myself,’ she said when he didn’t answer. ‘I can probably find some reason to poke around in his shed – tell him I’ve received information that Frisk may have hidden things at his place.’

‘Hold your horses, I’m thinking.’

‘I’ll head out there tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you.’

They finished the call. It was already twenty to eleven. Lindell broke one of her rules about not drinking wine during the week by going out into the kitchen, opening a bottle of Portuguese wine, and pouring herself a glass.

But before she tasted it she undressed, took a quick shower, wrapped herself in her robe, and sat down on the couch in the living room.

‘Cheers,’ she said, raising the glass at the television, and taking a sip.

She heard the sound of a car and felt more angry at the disturbance than afraid. She had been sketching for several hours. She had returned to the subject again and again, used many pieces of paper, and slowly the idea had started to take shape.

The sound of the engine stopped. She walked over to the window that faced the dirt road but saw nothing but the darkness between the pine trees.

There was a small dirt road between the Avenue and the cottage. If one continued past this road, it was only a hundred metres to the turnaround at Bultudden’s end. People occasionally drove down that way and turned around but never this late at night.

She stared out into the December night. Fear came creeping. The card Ann Lindell had given her was pinned to the noticeboard. Her mobile phone lay on the bed. A new look out of the window after she had turned out the light yielded nothing. The darkness and silence were impenetrable.

The knock came out of nowhere. She twirled around and fixed her eyes on the door before running over to the bed, grabbing her phone, and pressing the number keys for 911.

‘Who is it?’ she yelled.

‘It’s only me.’

She stared at the door. The voice sounded familiar but her terror prevented her from immediately identifying it. She pressed the dial button on her phone. Her hands shook. One ring sounded, then another, then a voice could be heard. A woman’s voice. At that moment the door opened.

‘Hello,’ said Thomas B. Sunesson.

He stepped into the house and immediately closed the door behind him.

‘It’s cold,’ he said, smiling. ‘I don’t want to let out the heat.’

The voice in the telephone yelled a ‘hello’.

‘Did I scare you?’

Lisen Morell shook her head.

‘Are you talking on the phone?’

A new shake.

‘I just wanted to let you know that Lasse is burning rubbish, in case you were wondering about the smell of fire.’

At last she managed to answer the increasingly agitated voice on the other end.

‘I dialled the wrong number,’ she said, and ended the call.

‘How are you? You look terrible. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘But you did!’

‘I just wanted to …’

‘I know what you want! You come sneaking around my house.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You can leave now.’

‘Calm down,’ Sunesson said.

Lisen Morell lifted one hand to stop him.

‘Leave,’ she said, ‘or I’ll call the police.’

He looked perplexed.

‘What do you mean I come sneaking around? I knocked, didn’t I?’

He explained how Doris Utman had called him and how he had gone out to check up on the burning smell.

‘She thought there might have been a fire at your place.’

‘There’s nothing burning here,’ Lisen Morell said.

‘Okay, then I know.’

He glanced at the table, then bent over and snatched a piece of paper from the floor.

‘This looks good,’ he said.

‘It’s a sketch, nothing else. But you are bothering me. I’d like you to leave now.’

He gazed at her, dropping the page so that it wafted down to the floor.

‘You’re not exactly a diplomat. I came here out of a sense of concern. That’s what we do out here. We look after each other.’

‘I’ve noticed,’ she said with an acidity that made him pull a face.

‘To be honest, I don’t think it’s good for you to live here all alone.’

‘And who has asked you for your honesty? You live alone too.’

‘Did you ever talk to Frisk? Did he come down here?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Did you meet his Thai girl?’

Lisen shook her head. She suddenly discovered that all fear and anger had run out of her. She imagined it was the smell of smoke that had calmed her.

‘What do you think happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lisen Morell said.

‘You said that someone’s been sneaking around. When was the last time?’

‘Just the other night. I heard footsteps and sounds.’

Sunesson walked over to the window facing the sea and stared into the darkness. She watched the back of his neck where the hairs were standing on end. It was as if he felt her gaze, and he pulled one hand over his shoulder.